Chapter 5 - The Man Who Was Supposed to Protect Us

We returned to the Rossi estate at two in the morning.

The study looked untouched until Luca pointed out the details.

A drawer closed half an inch too far.

Dust disturbed behind a painting.

A book returned upside down.

Whoever entered had known how to search without looking like they had searched.

Roman stood in the middle of the room, furious in complete silence.

I had learned enough about him to know that was worse than shouting.

“Who had access?” he asked.

Luca answered, “Household staff, security, you, me, and Mr. DeLuca.”

Roman’s expression changed.

“Paolo?”

“His code opened the service hall at 1:14.”

I knew Paolo DeLuca only as Roman’s attorney.

He visited twice a week, always wearing immaculate suits and carrying leather folders. He had been with the Rossi family for decades.

Roman looked at me.

“My father’s lawyer.”

The words from the letter returned.

One part went to the Rossi heir through a lawyer.

“Was he the lawyer?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

Roman called him.

No answer.

Again.

No answer.

Luca sent two men to Paolo’s house.

I watched Roman move around the study.

He looked at photographs, old ledgers, his father’s desk.

Then he stopped at a bronze horse sculpture on the shelf.

“What?”

“My father hated horses.”

I frowned.

“That seems important?”

“This was his.”

Roman lifted the sculpture.

It was heavy.

He turned it over.

The felt lining on the base had been cut and glued back.

Luca handed him a small knife.

Roman peeled the felt away.

A narrow compartment was hidden inside.

Empty.

Roman stared at it.

“Someone got there first.”

I felt the story closing around us.

“How long has that been here?”

“Since I was a child.”

“Who knew?”

“Paolo would have.”

Luca’s phone rang.

He listened, then cursed.

“Paolo’s gone.”

Roman turned.

“Gone where?”

“House empty. Closet cleared. Car missing.”

I sat down.

The second part of the truth had probably been inside that sculpture for years.

And someone had just taken it.

Roman looked at the bronze horse with an expression I could not read.

“My father used to keep this on his desk.”

I heard grief beneath the anger.

“You thought he was killed because of an internal dispute.”

“Yes.”

“And now?”

“Now I think he died because he tried to get out.”

I understood the feeling.

A dead parent becoming someone new.

It was like mourning twice.

I crossed the room and stood beside him.

He did not look at me.

“I was sixteen when he died,” he said.

“My mother sent me away three weeks later.”

“Why?”

“She thought staying in Chicago would kill me too.”

“What happened to her?”

“Cancer. Eight years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded.

For the first time, the myth around Roman disappeared.

He was not the man people whispered about.

He was a son standing beside an object his father once touched, trying to understand why no one told him the truth.

“I spent twenty years becoming the kind of man nobody could surprise,” he said.

“And?”

He gave me a humorless smile.

“Apparently I failed.”

I touched the back of his hand.

It was the smallest possible gesture.

He looked down at it.

Then at me.

Neither of us moved.

Luca entered before the moment could become something else.

“Thomas Miller called the house.”

My hand fell.

Roman took the phone.

“Put him through.”

A speaker on the desk clicked.

Then my uncle’s voice filled the room.

“Roman Rossi.”

Roman’s tone was ice. “Thomas Miller.”

A pause.

“Sadi with you?”

I stepped closer.

“I’m here.”

My uncle exhaled.

“Good.”

“Why did you leave that photograph at my apartment?”

“To get you moving.”

Roman and I exchanged a look.

“So Roman was right.”

“I needed you to find the box.”

“Why not get it yourself?”

“Because your father made sure I couldn’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“The vault agreement required access by Enzo’s surviving daughter or wife. Your mother refused.”

My anger sharpened.

“You could have called me.”

“No. I couldn’t.”

“You literally are calling me now.”

“Sadi, there are things you don’t understand.”

I almost laughed.

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

Thomas went silent.

Then: “Did you open the box?”

Roman muted the call.

“He wants confirmation.”

“Yes.”

“What do we tell him?”

I looked at the papers.

Then at my father’s letter.

“Nothing.”

Roman unmuted.

“What do you want, Thomas?” I asked.

“Your safety.”

“Try again.”

His voice hardened.

“I want the material your father hid.”

“Why?”

“Because it can destroy people who will not hesitate to destroy you first.”

“That sounds like a reason to keep it.”

“Sadi.”

I heard something old in his tone.

The uncle who used to tell me not to cross the street alone.

The man who bought me my first watercolor set.

“You think I killed Michael,” he said.

I did not answer.

“I didn’t.”

“Mom’s voice is on the tape saying you warned him.”

“I warned him because he planned to contact a federal investigator. I told him the Dane organization had people inside law enforcement.”

Roman’s gaze narrowed.

Thomas continued. “He ignored me. Two weeks later, his brakes failed.”

My skin went cold.

“So you knew it was murder.”

“I suspected.”

“You let us believe it was an accident for fifteen years.”

“I kept you alive for fifteen years.”

There it was.

The excuse every liar used.

Protection.

I looked at Roman.

He understood.

“Where is the third part?” I asked.

Thomas went quiet.

“Uncle Thomas?”

“With me.”

Roman muted the call again.

“He admitted it too easily.”

“Because he wants a trade.”

Roman nodded.

We unmuted.

“What do you want for it?” I asked.

Thomas exhaled.

“The contents of Box 317 and whatever Vittorio left Roman.”

“We don’t have Vittorio’s part.”

“That’s a lie.”

“No.”

Silence.

Then Thomas swore.

“You need to leave the estate now.”

I looked at Roman.

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t have it, Paolo DeLuca does.”

Roman stiffened.

“You knew Paolo?”

“I knew his father. Paolo was the courier assigned to protect Vittorio’s records.”

“Protect?”

“Until he realized he could sell them.”

Thomas’s voice became urgent.

“Listen carefully. Paolo has spent twenty years playing both sides. He knew Enzo divided the evidence. He never knew where my part was. If he has Vittorio’s file now, he will come for yours.”

Roman’s phone vibrated.

Luca looked at the message.

His face drained.

“What?” Roman asked.

“West gate camera.”

He turned the screen.

A black SUV had stopped outside the estate.

Two men stood beside it.

One held a phone.

The other held Chloe’s white rehearsal-dinner coat.

My heart stopped.

“No.”

I grabbed my phone and called Chloe.

No answer.

Again.

No answer.

I called my mother.

She answered screaming.

“They took her.”

Everything inside me disappeared except sound.

“What happened?”

“She left the hotel ten minutes ago. She said she needed air. A car pulled up.”

My knees weakened.

Roman caught my elbow.

Thomas’s voice came through the speaker.

“What happened?”

I looked at the white coat on Luca’s phone.

“They have Chloe.”

Thomas cursed.

A text arrived on my phone.

Unknown number.

BRING BOX 317 AND VITTORIO’S FILE TO ST. AGNES PARKING GARAGE. 4 A.M. COME WITH ROMAN. NO POLICE.

Below it was a photograph.

Chloe sat in the back seat of a vehicle.

She looked terrified but unhurt.

I could barely breathe.

Roman took the phone.

“We are not giving them everything.”

“She is my sister.”

“And if we hand over the only leverage we have, they can kill all of us.”

I turned on him.

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Give them what they think is everything.”

Luca understood first.

“Copies.”

Roman nodded.

I looked at the metal case.

“What if they check?”

“They will.”

“So?”

Roman picked up my father’s cassette recorder.

“We give them truth mixed with one thing they need badly enough to pause.”

“What thing?”

He looked at me.

“Me.”

“No.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Keep saying no when men decide for you, remember?”

“That is not funny.”

“I know.”

He stepped closer.

“They asked for you and me. That means they need something from both of us. They could have demanded a drop. They didn’t.”

“What do they need from you?”

“The Rossi side of the organization still controls companies, unions, contracts. I spent years cleaning much of it up, but the name still has weight.”

“You mean power.”

“Yes.”

“They need your signature.”

“Or access.”

I thought of the break-in.

“They searched your study because they thought you had Vittorio’s file.”

“Yes.”

“And Paolo took it.”

“Probably.”

“So the people holding Chloe may be Paolo.”

“Or Dane.”

Thomas’s voice returned from the speaker.

“You’re missing something.”

We had forgotten he was still there.

“What?” Roman asked.

Thomas said, “Paolo would never take Chloe.”

“Why not?”

“Because Chloe is not Enzo’s biological daughter.”

The room stopped.

I stared at the phone.

“What did you say?”

Thomas hesitated.

My mouth went dry.

“Say it again.”

“Sadi—”

“Say it.”

“Chloe is your mother’s daughter from her first marriage.”

I felt the floor shift beneath me.

“Dad adopted her?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell us?”

“That was their choice.”

I laughed once, without humor.

More secrets.

Always more.

Roman said, “Then why take Chloe?”

Thomas answered immediately.

“Because whoever took her does not know the family well enough to know she cannot access Enzo’s legal holdings.”

Roman and Luca exchanged a look.

“That narrows it,” Luca said.

“To Dane,” Roman replied.

Thomas agreed.

“Victor Dane wants the evidence. Paolo wants money. Different motives.”

I looked at Chloe’s photograph.

“Can we use that?”

Roman nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

“How?”

He looked at the message again.

“By giving Victor exactly what Paolo is trying to sell him.”

I understood.

“We make them distrust each other.”

Roman’s eyes met mine.

“For long enough to get your sister out.”

I took a breath.

Then another.

Four hours ago, I had been afraid to walk into a room where my ex-boyfriend might judge me.

Now my sister’s life depended on whether I could walk into a garage full of dangerous men and keep my head.

I thought of my father’s words.

Do not trust fear more than evidence.

I picked up the metal case.

“Tell me what to do.”

Roman shook his head.

“No.”

I stared at him.

“You tell me what we know. I decide what I do.”

For the second time that night, something like pride appeared in his face.

“All right,” he said.

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Then he pulled a chair beside mine.

And together, we started building a lie from the truth.